


Spin For My Heart

by poisontaster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ficlet, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pre-Series, Substitution, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-15
Updated: 2007-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-24 04:02:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4904773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can pretend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spin For My Heart

_If I gave up all of my pride for you_  
And only loved you for now  
Would you hide my fears and never say  
Tomorrow I must go.  
"Phantasmagoria in Two" by Tim Buckley  


"How do you want me?" The boy is naked, posing, but he's not very good at it. Uncertainty drips from every line of his body, making it awkward instead of seductive. The sick part—but not the sickest, oh no, not yet—is that it only makes it better.

"Don't," Dean says anyway. "Don't do that. Don't… Just…be yourself, okay?"

He knows it's stupid the moment he says it, asking a whore to be himself. He's no one special. He's not this kid's friend. He's just a trick, like any other guy. Dean lashes himself with it and drops his eyes, instead fumbling with the bundle of clothes he put on the foot of the bed. "Sorry. That was dumb. Just… Put these on."

He shoves the clothes at the kid, rougher than he means to, but the boy is solid, despite his stretched out skinniness. He takes the clothes from Dean's hands, shakes them out with only a bit of question in his eyes. They're ordinary things; a pair of old flannel pajama pants, ripped at the knee, a white tee-shirt, worn almost translucent. It will be too small, even stretched over the boy's thin chest. The green hoodie, still thick and whole, stolen.

The whore looks at Dean again and then shrugs. It doesn't take him long to dress and finally, Dean gets up from the bed, butterflies and darker, pricklier things angling for space in his sour stomach. Conversely—or maybe perversely—his cock is like a live coal in his shorts, hot and distracting, burning his skin.

Dressed, the boy still doesn't look quite right, though from behind and in dim light, Dean thinks he could pass. In any case the resemblance is enough to hurt, a not entirely unexpected blow to unhealed scar tissue. He comes closer and hears the boy's breathing change as he reaches up to comb the thick brown hair down into his face. "Like this."

"S'your dime, man," the whore says, sounding a little breathless. Dean doesn't mistake it for arousal.

"Lot more than a dime." He keeps tousling the kid's hair, like he's trying to get it right, but really, his eyes are closed, savoring the strands' texture against his skin. This, he thinks, is exactly perfect, soft and just a little bit oily, smooth to the touch. With his eyes shut, if he inhales, the illusion is even better, scent trapped in the clothes.

Dean lets his hands slip down, frame the kid's face between his thumbs. There is no mole breaking the smooth skin of the cheek, dotting up near the eye, but he can ignore that, he can _pretend_. "Sam," he breathes out, leaning in closer to feel the heat of the boy's skin, to make the illusion something living. "Say it. I want… Say it to me. Say, 'I'm Sam'."

It's sick, he knows it's sick, but he's past the point of caring, everything inside him holed through and bleeding. Sam is gone. Sam left him, and no matter what he makes this whore say, it's still not _really_ his brother and that makes it okay. A little okay. Better than the alternative.

"Sam," the whore answers readily, his voice a little too deep, a little too full. "I'm Sam."


End file.
